


and the whisper in your head goes quiet

by Ro29



Series: Lives Happen in Spirals [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Boba is really good at blocking things out like damn, Boba needs a break, Chip Removal Surgery, Clone Trooper Inhibitor Chips (Star Wars), Gen, Jango Fett is a good dad but not a great person, Mild Comfort, POV Second Person, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, missing time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28198536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ro29/pseuds/Ro29
Summary: There is a pounding in your head, and you don’t know how to make it stop.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Jango Fett
Series: Lives Happen in Spirals [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051664
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	and the whisper in your head goes quiet

**Author's Note:**

> let it be known that None Of This Is My Fault. Blame the discord, it is literally _all_ the discord's fault.....And Grace's...part of it is Grace's fault. Group effort for this one :(

There is a pounding in your head, and you don’t know how to make it stop.

You try to breathe through it and can’t, and you want to cry because your head hurts and you are so small and you want your _buir_ so badly it feels like a part of you is missing.

But this is the first time he has gone on a hunt in a long, long time, and you don’t want to make him stop, not when the hunt is in his blood and he looks around their home in the _white, white, white_ place like it is killing him slowly.

He is hurting, keeping himself in the home you have grown up in. Even as he holds you tightly, gently, and presses kisses to your forehead, holds your little body in his safe, strong, giant arms.

You are safe in your _buir’s_ arms, this is a truth, a fact, the thing the galaxy spins around. Your _buir_ is safe, always.

(As long as you are the son he wants.)

But right now, _buir_ isn’t here, and you are alone, and your head hurts and hurts and _hurts_ and you are crying and it _hurts so much_ and you want your _buir_ but he isn’t here so you aren’t _safe_ even though you are in your home, because it isn’t really home without _buir_ and you—

You open your eyes and you are in a closet somewhere, you’re not sure where, and you raise your tiny hands to your head and whimper, look around and feel your heart caught in your throat. The closet is dark and it reminds you of another closet, a different hiding place and your breath hitches.

You scramble to your feet, shaky and unsteady and arms and legs tingling all over, head spinning and dizzy and you almost throw up, whimper and press your hands to your eyes.

You step out of the closet and are hit with _white, white, white,_ and you freeze, shaking and scared because _this isn’t your home_.

This is the outside, the bad part of the place that you live and you think of your face and _blue eyes, split lip, bruised cheek terror_ and swallow down your sob.

You stumble your way back to your home you share with _buir_ and you try not to cry, you really do, but you are scared and _alone_ and your head doesn’t hurt as bad anymore but it’s still there in the background and _you don’t know what happened_ and it’s hard to keep the tears in.

You scrub at them fiercely with your little hands and breathe in great hiccuping gulps, get into bed and hide yourself under the blankets and clutch the pillow tight to your chest, imagine that _buir_ is here to wrap you in his arms and keep you safe and love you and that you will always be good enough for him to keep and love.

You fall asleep somewhere between one sob and the next.

* * *

It doesn’t stop.

It doesn’t stop and it is horrifying and you are little and think you might be dying or something and you just want to be okay and a good son and you want _buir_ to keep you safe but—

You are young still, and you don’t know why you are closing your eyes in one place and waking up in another. You don’t remember things, and it is a terrifying feeling that claws its way around your chest and up your throat until you are sick with it.

You hold your tiny fists in front of you and think, “ _What’s wrong with me_.” You remember another boy, like you but too little-big with blue eyes and bruised face and split lip and you wonder if this will be enough to make _buir_ decide you are not worth it.

You bite your lip until it bleeds, a childish sacrifice for quiet and to ward off the tears, clench your tiny hands and tiny fingers into tiny fists and think, ‘ _I can’t tell buir_.’

You wrap your arms around yourself, try to breathe through the headache and whimper when it spikes again.

You are alone and you want to hide under your blankets again, or dive into _buir’s_ arms and—

You are so, _so_ scared.

* * *

This time, when you open your eyes after, _after_ , it is to _buir’s_ hands tight on your shoulders, barefaced and looking down at you with wide eyes and you are shaking, shaking, _shaking_ and there are tears dried and sticky on your face.

You look down at your tiny hands and see that they are battered and there are bruises there and you _don’t know how they got there._

You look up at _buir_ and it is the first time you have ever seen him terrified.

"Boba," _buir_ says, something desperate there, " _What do you remember_?”

You want to say, _‘Nothing_.’

You want to be able to launch yourself into his arms and cling and cry and let all of the words that have been sitting on your tongue and behind your teeth like poison, out. Want to open your mouth and have them all spill out like a purification, like water drip, drip, dripping on the floor, like rain.

You want to scream and you want to cry and your tiny hands tremble as _buir_ looks at you.

Your shoulders are shaking and you can’t stop your eyes from filling up with tears so quick that soon you can’t see _buir’s_ face through them.

You say nothing at all, wipe at your eyes furiously and want to sob, want to tell him, ‘I’ll do better, I’ll do better, I’m _sorry_.’

You don’t, because you look up and _buir_ looks like you have stabbed him in the chest, looks small and strange in a way you have never seen him before.

_Buir_ has always been so big, to you, big and able to lift you up and hold you in his arms like it is the easiest thing in the world.

But all he looks like now, is small and scared and maybe angry.

You don’t know what to do with that.

He reaches out to you, picks you up and holds you close and whispers apologies into your hair over and over and over until you are shaking even more, trembling in his arms and crying and head spiking with pain and clutching onto him with everything you have.

“ _Ni ceta adi’ka_ ,” _buir_ whispers, voice hoarse and you freeze because _buir_ has been teaching you, slowly, how to speak the language he holds in his heart. And that was the _big_ apology he’d taught you, the one you only said when you hurt someone so bad it was everything, when it was so awful a thing that fixing it took more out of you than it had to hurt the other person.

You bite your lip and tremble in his arms.

You decide that you don’t want to know why _buir_ is telling you that, don’t want to know what happened, if _buir_ is part of it, just want this all to _stop_.

You whimper, bury your face in his neck and he whispers gently, urgently, “I’ll fix this Bob’ika, I’ll fix it I swear. I’m sorry _ad’ika, ni ceta, ni ceta_.”

You close your eyes and try not to think, try not to hear the fear and terror in _buir’s_ voice, feel it in the way he holds you tight to him like you will slip away if he doesn’t

You don’t want to know.

* * *

_Buir_ goes to talk to the longnecks, the ones who are tall and scary and rough and control everything.

You think he yells at them, furious and loud and making himself _big, big, big_ , taking up the room and frantic and quick, sharp words, like the edge of a vibroblade or a _beskad_.

You cover your ears, hide your face away against your knees, try to block it out as they fight about _chips_ , and _control_ , and _the plan_.

You press your hands over your ears as tight as you can.

You don’t listen to what they say, but the next thing you know _buir_ is kneeling in front of you, eyes serious and hands on your arms.

He leans into a gentle _keldabe_ and tells you to be brave, not to fear, that everything will be fixed and okay again.

You just have to go to sleep for a little bit.

There’s a prick against your neck and the last thing you see is _buir_ ’s scared eyes.

When you wake up your head still hurts, but not in that sharp aching way, and _buir_ is waiting by your bedside and he smiles at you and squeezes your hand.

_“It’s okay now_.” he says and your lip trembles as you grab for him.

He wraps you up into a hug and you believe him, because he’s here and you aren’t alone and you are still good enough for him.

(You don't want to know if the other’s who wear your face had this happen to them, if the other’s who wear your face have what you had and just didn’t have anyone to care enough to help them.

Mostly, you don’t want to think about _buir_ knowing what was wrong with you immediately, don’t want to think about all the others with your face having whatever you had _on purpose_.

You hug _buir_ and you push it all away.)

You grip tightly onto him and shake with your tears.

It’s okay now, it’s okay.

You sob and you decide to never think about it again.

You’ve gotten really good at not thinking about things.

**Author's Note:**

> ni ceta: groveling apology, literally means 'I kneel' 
> 
> Boba might not get it, but Jango knows what he did.
> 
> If you want to find me other places I have a [writing tumblr](https://rose-blooms-red.tumblr.com) and a [fandom tumblr](https://themessofthecentury.tumblr.com)
> 
> Please come yell at me about Star Wars and DC!


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